


clumsy blessings

by lovelylogans



Series: the sideshire files [6]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Absent Parents, Gen, Kid Fic, Swearing, happy birthday logan!, scraped knee, wyliwf!verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-22 16:07:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21304823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelylogans/pseuds/lovelylogans
Summary: it's logan's sixth birthday, and it's shaping up to be the best birthday ever.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil & Creativity | Roman & Logic | Logan & Morality | Patton
Series: the sideshire files [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1464067
Comments: 33
Kudos: 145





	clumsy blessings

**Author's Note:**

> _as the day arrives._  
_with all its clumsy blessings._  
_what we will become._  
_waits in us like an ache._  
-_birth-day_, lucille clifton
> 
> happy birthday, logan!! this references a variety of things that get brought up in chapters 2, 5, 6, and 7 of the [main storyline](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19053706/chapters/45259234)—this is how a lot of that stuff happened!

papa always wakes him up _really super early_ on his birthday, which is always kinda fun, like it’s a big huge sleepover and it’s just papa and him, except _better,_ because it means it’s his _birthday._

logan almost can’t fall asleep the night before his birthday he’s so excited, because it’s like _christmas,_ and this’ll be the first birthday that he’s in _school_ and papa’s already promised that he can have a sleepover with roman and daddy promised that he’s coming to town too, so it’s really gearing up to be the best birthday that ever happened EVER.

but he manages to fall asleep, like he always does. and papa wakes him up, like he always does.

“happy birthday, honey.”

logan squints up at his papa, who’s leaning over logan’s bed with a smile, having just gotten down from his, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders—it’s colder than it was when they fell asleep, and usually they share when it gets cold like this. logan sticks up his arms, and his papa chuckles.

“up?”

“up,” logan agrees sleepily, and his papa makes sure he’s still bundled up in his own blankets before lifting logan onto his own bed, and logan crawls so he’s got his chin digging into his papa’s chest, so he can still see his face.

“i’m six now,” logan informs him.

“you _are,”_ his papa agrees, settling a hand on logan’s back. “you gotta use two hands to show off your age now, buddy. i can’t believe how fast you’re growing up.”

“my birthday took _forever_ to get here,” logan informs him. “_for-eeeevvv-eeer.”_

his papa laughs. “it feels fast to me. how’s your life so far?”

logan considers this. he says, “i guess i don’t like that whole humidity thing.” he enunciates the word carefully, because pronunciation is _important._

“i’ll work on that,” his papa says seriously, before wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “now. at this exact time, many moons ago, i had been in the hospital and people had been telling me to _push!_ for _fourteen_ hours. fourteen! and while having you of course was one of the most meaningful experiences of my life, at that point, i was _very_ tired.”

“because labor hurts really bad,” logan says, and his papa taps him on the nose.

“_exactly._ and i was saying naughty words like a sailor on leave, which you really shouldn’t do, but i was hurting pretty bad so i give myself a pass, and i was surrounded by a hundred prominent doctors, just hollering my fool head off—”

he makes a funny face, and makes a funny yelling noise, quiet enough that it won’t escape the pool house and wake anyone in the inn, so logan giggles. his papa leans over to press a kiss to logan’s forehead.

“so there i was, lying there, and...”

* * *

papa’s singing as they go to the diner—he’s carrying logan on his back, which means logan’s got his arms wrapped around his neck as papa dances a little as they make their way down the sidewalk—and his cheeks hurt from smiling so big.

it’s just kinda _them,_ plus it’s really clear that he’s doing it because _papa_ wants to, so it’s not a little kid thing that he’s doing at all, here.

“it’s the birthday boy, it’s the birthday boy, it’s the birthday boy, it’s the birthday boy!” patton chants as he tosses open the door of the diner, the bell jangling, and virgil looks up from the counter with a smile.

“hi, virgil,” logan says.

“hey, kid,” virgil says. “happy birthday.”

logan squirms, and papa tightens his grip.

“you gotta pay a toll to get off the papa patrol,” his papa says, businesslike.

“toll means price,” logan informs him.

“exactly right, kiddo, very smart!” his papa exclaims. “and the price is, i gotta get a kiss to let you down.”

logan groans.

“kiss,” his papa chants. “kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss—“

logan rolls his eyes and leans in to smack a kiss to his papa’s cheek, and by the time he’s scrambled down to the ground, virgil’s in front of his papa, hands stuffed into his pockets.

virgil’s been acting a bit weird over the past couple days, but logan thinks that’s because papa splattered cake batter _everywhere_ two days ago and the diner was really busy yesterday because virgil had to do taxes or payroll or something very adult-sounding <strike>and maybe a bit boring</strike> like that.

virgil stares at his papa for a few seconds as papa makes sure that his shirt’s all straight, and then he shakes himself before he gets to logan’s level.

logan likes that about virgil—well, he likes a lot about virgil, virgil’s one of his best friends (he thinks?) so of course he likes a lot about him—but virgil always talks to him like he can understand what he says, not like some of the other adults. like a lot of grandma’s friends talk to him like he’s a _baby,_ when he is _six_ whole years old and he can read two grades above where his level should be and he has up to the fives memorized in times tables, _thank you._

“happy birthday, kid,” virgil says. “has it been a good one so far?”

“it was until papa was embarrassing,” logan informs virgil primly, and virgil snorts, glancing up at his papa.

“we’re sure he’s turning six?”

“he better be turning six, it’s already weird that he’s getting so big already,” his papa says, smoothing a hand over logan’s hair, and logan puffs his chest out a little. he’s taller than roman, but he’s not the tallest in the class—he’s pretty in-the-middle, but his papa keeps promising that he’ll grow into a lot of the stuff he gets from the store where the clothes come in trash bags and are almost always a _little_ too big and smell a bit like what papa says are _mothballs_ like in _the lion, the witch, and the wardrobe_ before papa puts them in the huge industrial-sized washing machine that they’re allowed to use in the inn.

“i have a surprise for you,” virgil informs him seriously. “wanna come back into the kitchen?”

_what kind of question is that,_ of _course_ logan wants to go back into the kitchen. first of all, there’s a _surprise,_ and second of all, logan’s kind of hoping that the surprise is one of the at-home chemistry experiments that virgil does with him sometimes, like baking powder and vinegar that logan gets to dye whatever color he wants, or the time virgil showed him how to make ice cream in a plastic bag or how to make rock candy in old, washed-out jars. 

so he follows virgil behind the counter (which always feels like a special kind of rebellious privilege, because he and roman are the _only_ kids in their class who have been back here) and back into the kitchen.

virgil reaches over, picks up a tray, and flips it so that logan can see.

“it’s a cupcake tin,” logan says.

“yeah,” virgil says. “i’d have the cupcakes, but i figured you’d want to pick the flavor me and your dad could bring to your class.”

logan looks up at him, and then to his papa, and then back.

“you guys are coming to school?” he asks eagerly.

“for a bit,” his papa says. “i cleared it up with mr. geller, so we’re bringing in morning snacks and i can hang out with you during recess, if you—if you want—“

“yes,” logan says. 

“yeah?”

“_yes,”_ logan repeats, smiling big. “i can show you my cubby and my desk and the nametag roman colored in for me and the library and you two can read to me and—”

“sounds like a big day,” his papa says.

“this is the _best_ birthday,” logan tells him, and his papa puffs up a little, all proud of himself, and virgil reaches down to ruffle his hair, before he said, “can you see the flavors from down there?”

“nope.”

“picking up okay?”

“picking up’s okay,” he says. that’s another thing he really likes about virgil—virgil always asks him if he wants to be picked up or hugged or anything, which daddy doesn’t always remember to do and his papa always kind of seems to just _know_ and asks if he doesn’t_,_ so. he thinks asking’s better than just assuming. that way you make sure it’s right.

virgil hefts him onto his hip, and he pulls out a binder full of recipes. “okay, we got a lot of choices here, kid. you have a preference before we narrow it down?”

“roman really likes chocolate and cherry,” he says.

“it’s your birthday,” virgil points out.

“i know,” logan says. “but i picked out the cake. i wanna share it with roman, ‘cause he’s my best friend, and i want him to feel special too, so he can get what he likes for cupcakes.”

virgil pauses, and logan leans to look at him. “what?”

“you’re a really good kid, you know?” virgil says, and logan shrugs, before staring at the recipe book.

he ends up picking chocolate-caramel and vanilla-cherry cupcakes, and then virgil shoos him and his papa out of the kitchen so he can make a birthday breakfast.

papa gets him a copy of the _courant_ and digs a pen out of his pocket, so that logan can scrawl all over it. logan likes the _courant,_ he just thinks it could be better, so. he’s trying to help it be better.

whenever he tells rudy, the editor, that, rudy says he is “kind of a smartass—wait, dammit, tell your dad i said smartbutt, actually, i’ll give you a dollar if you don’t tell him i said naughty words,” but that’s got _smart_ right there in the name, so he isn’t sure why it might be something he can’t tell his papa about, other than the naughty word part of it.

virgil brings out a cinnamon roll that is the size of his _face_ for his birthday, and he and his papa sing happy birthday, and it’s a weirdly warm day which means that logan can get away with wearing _shorts_ on his birthday, which _never_ happens, and the diner joins in by the end, and logan blows out the candle on the first try, and then virgil sits down for breakfast with him and his papa, which he almost never does, so.

logan kind of feels like the whole world is trying its best to make sure that he’s having the best birthday ever.

* * *

roman examines the box, and narrows his eyes and tilts his head like he’s seen adults do at the art shows mommy gets invited to sometimes. it doesn’t really help, so he just uses his eyes normally again. maybe adults do it because they’re all old and old people have bad eyes.

“the blue one,” roman decides at last. “logan likes blue.”

his mother nods, professional, and sets aside the other rolls of wrapping paper—mostly red, because it’s both of their favorite colors. 

“it’s gotta be _perfect,”_ roman tells her. 

“you have told me that twenty-three times,” his mother says. he’s sure the number’s right—mommy always remembers how many times roman’s done or told her something. it’s like one of her superpowers.

“you’re sure you don’t want to help?”

“whenever _i_ help the paper goes all wonky,” he says. “and since it’s gotta be perfect—“

“—twenty-four—“

“—you gotta do it, with the pretty bow and the string and stuff, ‘cuz i can’t make the curly thing with scissors,” roman says. 

“i’ll wrap it while you’re at school,” she says, setting the box aside. “are you ready?”

roman does a little twirl—he’s wearing his new red sweater and a pair of dark jeans and he put a couple of the sticker earring things around his eyes and on his ears, the favorite ones he’s been saving for a special day, and logan’s birthday is a _special day_.he also put extras in his backpack. just in case.

“backpack,” his mother says, and roman sighs, stomping off and shrugging it on—it’s pink and glittery and pretty, and it’s got tulle on it like a tutu—and spins again.

“there,” his mom says.

they walk to school together. well, for the most part they walk, roman practices _jetés_ and tries for a_ tour jeté_ a few times, and he does the whole _tombée pas de bourrée glissade pas de chat_ combination a couple times because it’s fun and his mom corrects his footwork as they go, the sunshine growing stronger in a way it hasn’t been in _ages_. 

“okay,” his mother says at the gate.

“don’t forget to wrap it,” roman says.

“i won’t.”

“with the big bow and the curly ribbons,” roman checks.

“yes, roman,” she says. “now get to class. and you keep neglecting your back leg when you leap. you have to point your toes every time your foot leaves the ground.”

“got it,” he says and tugs at her jacket until she leans down so he can give her a kiss on the cheek. 

he gets into class before logan, which is good, because that means he can tuck all of his things into his cubby and hang up his backpack and jacket on his hook and check his face in a mirror, to make sure that none of the sticky earrings have fallen off—they haven’t—and that he doesn’t have any of his breakfast on his face or anything.

he sits at his desk, and he waits.

the clock says that there is ten minutes until school starts but it is a _lie_ because it takes for-eeee-veeer for logan to get here, and roman leaps to his feet as soon as he walks through the door, walking-_not-running-mr.-geller!_ to be the first one to see him and say—

“happy birthday!”

“inside voices, roman,” mr. geller says wearily.

“sorry!” roman calls, and whispers, “happy birthday” to show that he has listened.

logan grins at him. “thanks,” he says, and adds, “i like the stickers.”

roman beams, tilting his head back and forth, so he can see the ones on his ears too. “thanks! can i carry your backpack and stuff?”

logan hands over his backpack, so roman trots over to hang it up for him as logan straightens up his cubby—he is _very_ tidy and _very_ particular about his cubby, so usually logan just trusts him to hang up his stuff because he’s seen how messy roman’s desk is.

they sit at their desks—they get to face each other, so roman can show logan stuff that he draws during class and they can whisper and try not to get caught by mr. geller—but since they’ve only got a couple minutes until class starts they can’t really talk for long.

the first thing in the morning they practice their letters, which is a Quiet Activity. logan’s really good at letters—logan’s really good at _everything,_ though.

but _then_ they get to do coloring stuff, which roman _really_ likes! and also it means—

“can i draw on you?” roman asks.

“yes.”

“mr. geller, logan says i can draw on him, ‘cause it’s his birthday!” roman calls out, and ignores the _inside voices_ response because that’s not a _no,_ and logan presents his arms.

“whaddaya want?” roman asks, business-like, uncapping a black marker. “since it’s your _birthday.”_

“stars’n’stuff, please,” logan says, a little shy.

“_awesome,”_ roman says, and starts to doodle—he draws blue, five-pointed stars, and swirly planets, and a jupiter or two, and all kinds of moons. 

logan keeps looking at the schedule that mr. geller’s got on the wall, and at the clock, and he looks excited.

“recess is soon,” roman offers, and logan grins.

“yeah,” he says. “snacktime too.”

“i didn’t see you bring in birthday snacks,” roman says. because that’s a thing kids do sometimes—sasha brought donuts for the whole _grade_ on her birthday.

“papa and virgil are bringing ‘em,” logan says.

"_nice,”_ roman says. 

logan keeps squirming, so roman ends up finishing up logan’s arms and they color in one of the coloring sheets mr. geller hands out—well, logan kinda does, he keeps looking at the clock and at the schedule and at the door.

and _then_ the door opens, and logan’s off toward the door like a _shot, _and mr. geller doesn’t even have time to lecture him about running before logan’s dad is picking him up, swinging him up into his arms with a big hug, as mr. geller approaches him. virgil from the diner is holding a box-thing, and roman gets up from the desk to sneak up to see him, since virgil’s waving at the kids who are waving at him.

roman tugs at his pant leg. “virge.”

“hey, kid,” virgil says.

“it’s logan’s birthday,” roman informs him, because it’s really the most important thing about today and possibly ever.

“i know,” virgil says. “it’s pretty cool, right?”

“the _coolest_,” roman says, and virgil’s lip quirks up into a smile.

“everyone, this is logan’s dad, mr. sanders,” mr. geller announces.

“hi, mr. sanders,” the room thrums.

“hi, everyone!” logan’s dad says happily, setting logan back on the ground.

“—and most of you know virgil, from the diner.”

“hi, mr. virgil from the diner!”

“it’s logan’s birthday today,” mr. geller says, “so logan and his dad and virgil brought in some snacks for the class. so, if we all want to come over here for storytime while logan and his dad and his friend get the snacks ready?”

the class obediently shuffles over, but roman clings stubbornly to the virgil’s pantleg.

“roman—“ mr. geller begins.

“i wanna help, too,” roman says. 

“i got him, rob,” virgil says, and mr. geller sighs, before he seems to accept it and goes to sit down in his chair at the reading rug, and roman skips over to the counter where mr. geller usually puts snacks together, and bounces on his toes.

“hi there, roman.”

“hi, mr. logan’s dad,” roman says.

“okay, virge, let’s—” logan’s dad frowns, and says, “i should probably ask who wants what, right?”

“that’s probably a good idea,” virgil says, and he goes to check the closet so he can get more napkins and also cups, because they brought some juice for drinks. so it’s just logan and roman.

“what kinda snacks is it?” roman asks logan, bouncing from foot to foot.

“cupcakes.”

roman gasps, and claps, and _bounces_ even more, because movement is a way to get the energy out and his mom says he is a _very energetic person_. “virgil makes the _best_ cupcakes.”

honestly, virgil makes the best _everything._

“half’s chocolate caramel,” he says, and then he smiles at roman and scuffs his shoe over the ground. “and i—and i had virgil make the other vanilla-cherry. since you really like chocolate and cherry’s your favorite.”

_what can roman even do to that **except** hug him!!!_

except logan didn’t _expect_ for him to hug him, and roman hugs him too hard, and they tumble over, and logan makes a yelping noise when they collapse, and roman lets go of him immediately, heart dropping when he catches sight of logan’s knee—scraped-up, somehow, and _bleeding,_ and roman is the _worst friend ever._

_“oh my god,”_ roman says, “are you okay?! does it hurt?!”

“no,” logan says, but his voice is wobbling so it’s a _lie,_ and roman knocked him over and hurt him on his _birthday._

“i—“ roman begins, and scrambles. “i can help make you feel better!”

logan takes a deep breath in, and says, voice steadier, “okay.”

“okay,” roman says, and so he leans in, and presses his lips against logan’s knee. and then another one, before he draws back.

“m’trying to kiss it better,” he explains. “s’it working?”

logan’s gone all pink, like he does sometimes, and he swallows.

“yeah,” he says. “yeah, it’s—it’s working.”

“oh,” roman says, and beams. “good!”

“whoa, hey, what happened here?” virgil asks, dropping in next to logan.

“i knocked him over on accident because i got too excited,” roman explains, guilty. “sorry, logan.”

“s’okay,” logan says, and explains to virgil, “he kissed it better.”

virgil’s lips twitch. “he did, huh?”

“twice,” logan says.

“i owe you a _thousand_ birthday apology kisses,” roman says, anxious. “i’m the _worst.”_

“it was an accident,” logan says staunchly, but then logan’s _dad_ comes over and oh, roman’s gonna be in _so_ much trouble.

“what was?”

“i got too excited and i hugged him too hard and i knocked him over,” roman says, fully expecting him to maybe shout a little like mr. geller does or a disappointed lecture like from his _mom,_ before logan’s dad looks between logan and him and nods.

“well, accidents happen,” he says decisively. “and you said sorry, right?”

“_super_ sorry, mr. logan’s dad,” roman says, nodding so hard that his hair flops into his eyes, like virgil does sometimes, and logan’s dad tries not to smile.

“then i don’t think you should get in trouble or anything,” logan’s dad says, and digs around in his pocket, taking out a little white box. “good thing i’ve got a first aid kit. i can put a band-aid on logan and kiss it better?”

“roman already kissed it better,” logan says, and logan’s dad’s eyebrows shot up his forehead.

“he did, huh,” he says.

“i can do it again if it helps,” roman says, and he asks logan, “d’you think it’ll help?”

“i think it will,” logan says.

“all right,” logan’s dad says, and pops open the first aid kit, taking out the cream stuff that makes sure a scratch doesn’t get even worse. “you wanna have roman help pick out a band-aid while i help clean this up, buddy?”

“i’ll get the cupcakes ready,” virgil says, and so logan’s dad smears the paste on logan’s knee as roman and logan peruse their band-aid options—not quite as impressive as his mom’s band-aid stash for dancers at the studio, but pretty darn impressive—and logan holds up one with rockets on and one with a princess on.

“which?” he asks.

roman tilts his head. “belle,” he says decisively. “she’s smart, like you, and you’ve already got a rocket on your arm. plus she’s blue and that’s your favorite color, and the rocket’s just white and gray with only a _little_ red.”

logan nods, and hands over the belle band-aid—”very wise choice,” logan’s dad says—and carefully puts it on to make sure that it won’t do that annoying thing whenever logan bends his knee.

“okay,” roman says, and bends over to peck it again. “better?” he demands.

“i bet a snack and some juice will help even more, huh?” his dad says. “you think you two are up for helping hand out the cupcakes?”

“yes,” logan says decisively, and leans up to check the cupcakes, before he points.

“that one’s for roman,” he says.

“‘course,” virgil says. “here, you can hand out the chocolate ones and roman can hand out the vanilla ones. your dad can handle the juice. don’t want any spills, right?”

this is not usual class-snack-passing-out methodology, but mr. geller kind of looks like he’s given up at that point. he accepts the chocolate-caramel cupcake that virgil hands him, though, along with a thermos, and is directed over to his desk. it’s kind of funny, like virgil is directing mr. geller to the calm-down-corner, which roman has been to a _number_ of times, but mr. geller lets out a really big sigh when he sits and takes a sip, so he guesses mr. geller likes it.

the cupcakes look _really_ pretty—both of them have swirly, multi-colored icing, pink and blue and purple—and the chocolate caramel ones have rolos on top and the vanilla cherry ones have a cherry, and soon the sound of chewing is all that’s in the class.

he and logan sit at their desks, and logan’s dad walks by, setting down two plates.

“special delivery,” he says, and he _winks,_ and puts down their juice, too, before going to stand with virgil to make sure the snack station’s all tidied up.

roman tugs his closer—his has the pretty icing, and the cherry, but there’s also—

_that one’s for roman,_ logan had said, and roman grins at him, fishing the pretty, plastic ring out of the icing, sucking it off before slipping it onto his finger, wiggling it at logan.

“d’you like it?”

“i love it,” roman says. it’s got a gold band, and the red ruby-ish looking plastic gem is all rounded with little twinkling sequins, like diamonds. logan grins, showing off his, with a rectangular blue stone, and his band is silver.

he thinks that means he’s forgiven.

* * *

the bell jangles, and virgil’s almost immediately at logan’s side, helping him slide off his backpack.

“hey, kid,” virgil says. “was the rest of your day at school good?”

“not as good as it was when you two were there,” logan says. because his papa had joined up on his team during all the games they played at recess, and logan lasted the longest he’s _ever_ lasted in jump-rope, and he and his papa won the hopscotch tournament, and it turns out his papa’s not very good at four-square but _virgil_ sure is, and he’d join in when he wasn’t giving piggy-back rides to all the kids in class. and then when they’d went in for naptime, mr. geller had let him and roman stay up, so they’d sat nestled between virgil and his papa as his papa read _all_ the stories that logan picked out, virgil staring at his papa over their heads, all of them leaning heavy against each other. and then his papa stuck around for lunch and virgil brought him food from the diner for _lunch,_ too, and since usually logan brings cold leftovers from whatever the inn’s guests ate last night for dinner it’s a reversal from staring at the other kids’ cafeteria meals, and it sure is a step up from most of the other kids’ cafeteria meal of cup fruit and sloppy joes and cardboard cartons of chocolate milk. 

“still good, though?”

“still good,” logan says, and follows virgil so he can scramble up on one of the stools at the counter.

“okay, after-school snack,” virgil says, planting his hands on the counter. “you got a preference?”

logan considers this for a few seconds, before he shrugs. “you can pick.”

“huh, really?” virgil says. “no super-sugary snacks? it’s your birthday, you can if you want.”

“well, yeah,” logan says. “but i’m gonna have cake later and probably a special treat for dinner, so i may as well eat something healthy before i do.”

a proud smile bursts out onto virgil’s face.

“what?”

“there’s hope for you sanders boys understanding nutrition yet,” virgil says. “how about some apples with peanut butter, and some ants on a log? that’s still fun, right?”

“okay,” logan says, and virgil taps the counter once before retreating into the kitchen.

logan digs around in his backpack, and gets out the worksheets he’s supposed to do for homework, and settles in to do those as he eats his snack and when his papa gets done with his shift at the inn. daddy’s supposed to come around dinnertime, maybe, and so’s roman and virgil, so he wants to get his homework done _now _so he’s not distracted by it later.

when virgil asks, that’s what he tells him, and virgil stares at him for a bit.

“what?” logan says.

“sometimes,” virgil says, “i swear you were born thirty.”

logan brightens. “like you think i’m an adult?”

“in some ways,” virgil says, and reaches out to tousle his hair. “however, sometimes you are pure teenager, and i fear the day you hit thirteen.”

“that’s _forever_ away,” logan says. “that’s _my-whole-life-right-now_ away, _plus_ a year.”

"you’ll see,” virgil says. “eat your snacks, first, so you don’t get peanut butter on your homework.”

logan pointedly chomps the celery, so it makes a loud crunching noise, and virgil grins at him before he goes off to check on some other customers.

so logan does his homework, and talks with virgil when virgil has some free time, and he’s double-checking his math answers when a hand lands on his shoulder.

“hey, kiddo,” his papa says, and logan spins the barstool so he can look at him.

“hi.”

“good rest of the day at school?”

“yeah,” logan says. “not as good as when you were there, but yeah.”

his papa grins, and ruffles his hair, before he steals one of logan’s apples, dipping it into peanut butter, and popping it into his mouth.

“can you check my homework?” logan asks.

“sure thing,” his papa says, and tugs over the nearest completed worksheet. his papa helps him polish off his celery and apples—virgil always kind of overestimates how much to give him, but logan is a “growing boy” and virgil says he’d rather be safe than sorry on serving sizes—before logan finishes, and his papa helps pack it all away again.

“see you at six-thirty?” virgil checks, leaning his hip against the counter and staring at his papa. it’s kind of a weird stare—but then, virgil’s been acting weird lately, so.

“six-thirty,” his papa confirms, smiling. “and you’re picking up roman?”

“yep,” virgil says, and looks at logan. “have a fun couple hours, yeah? i’ll see you soon.”

“okay,” logan says.

“what do we say?” his papa chides, and usually virgil looks at logan all amused whenever his papa says that, but for whatever reason—today, virgil’s staring at his papa.

he’s been doing that a lot today.

logan sighs, which makes virgil’s gaze snap down to him, and says, “thank you for the snacks.”

“you’re welcome,” virgil says, except his eyes move from logan’s face to his papa’s again.

“thank you, have a nice day,” logan says, handing over the key. the guest—an old lady named ingrid, except he isn’t supposed to call people old to their face—smiles at him, and accepts it. he glances back to see his papa trying to smile, too, except his face is kind of funny about it.

his face has been kind of funny ever since logan had gotten a special birthday cookie from sookie and his papa had stepped out to take a phone call and come back all pinched around the eyes. logan doesn’t like it.

logan adjusts his stance—he’s on a chair so he can see over the desk to see customers—and he hears his papa take a deep breath.

“honey?” 

“yeah, papa?” logan asks, looking up at him. his papa makes a face, then looks like he’s trying not to make a face, and reaches out and takes his hands.

oh. it’s probably bad news.

“i’m really, really sorry,” his papa says, voice quiet and soft and gentle, “but, um—but i just got the news that your dad can’t make it today.”

the only thing logan can say to that is “oh,” and he _hates_ how quiet and sad it sounds and he _hates_ how his papa’s face drops when he says it.

“i’m,” his papa says, and he sounds choked and watery and _no,_ his papa isn’t supposed to be _sad_ and upset with himself like it’s _his_ fault, “i am _so_ sorry, sweetheart, i know you were looking forward to seeing your dad.”

logan takes a second, and logan thinks.

logan also has two dads. plenty of people don’t have dads—roman is one of them, because his dad is dead—but logan has two dads. his daddy is one of them. he tends to see his daddy on holidays, and whenever they take trips out to california to see him. his other dad kind of just leaves him to his own devices and doesn’t ever come to anything at school and he doesn’t always remember his birthday. he doesn’t make him birthday cupcakes or after-school snacks or keep him company when papa falls asleep at the dinner table because he’s so tired.

his daddy is kind of like alex murry from _a wrinkle in time_: meg’s dad is missing and not there, and when he’s there, it’s good, and she learns a lot from him, but he’s missing and she has to suit up and go save him with her brother and someone from high school and three random mysterious ladies, and it turns out that meg’s dad used the fifth dimension to travel through space and time and he’s trapped and it’s because he won’t succumb to the group hivemind.

except his daddy doesn’t use tesseract technology to travel through time and space. he just lives a long way away, and he doesn’t even have the excuse of evil aliens who prevent him from coming to his birthday or picking up the phone or even just sending a card.

logan also has a papa. he is a good dad. he is quite possibly the _best_ dad—he always makes sure that logan is warm and full and happy, and he always reads to logan and tucks him in at night and cheers him up if he’s sad and he makes sure that he has good birthdays.

logan’s papa is like lily and james potter and molly and arthur weasley from _harry potter_ and mr. and mrs. quimby from _ramona_ and maurice from _beauty and the beast_ and mr. brown from _encyclopedia brown _and miss honey from _matilda__,_ all tangled up into one person, and that’s his papa.

and logan doesn’t want to focus on a version of alex murry who isn’t even trapped because he’s fighting the darkness. he’s just not there. and logan doesn’t know if it’s because he isn’t trying hard enough to be there or if it’s because he doesn’t want to be there.

he already has a dad. if one doesn’t show up—that’s on him. that’s not on logan. that’s not on his papa. that’s dad—his _other_ dad’s—loss. not logan’s. 

“my dad is right here,” logan says, and his papa—his _dad,_ his primary parent, his _papa,_ his_ dad,_ who is all logan needs, parent-wise, thanks very much_—_looks startled, before squeezing his hands again.

“i know i am,” his dad says, “but—“

“my dad is right here,” logan repeats. “is virgil still coming over?”

his dad looks even more startled. “yes—in half an hour, i think.”

“roman too?”

“roman too,” his dad says. “but if there’s any way i can make it up to you—“

“it’s a good birthday,” logan says, and his voice is firm. “it’s _been_ a good birthday. him not being here doesn’t change that. okay?”

“i—okay,” his dad says, and bites his lip. “can i give you a hug?”

logan considers it. “okay,” he allows, and his dad picks him up off the stool and hugs him so close and so tight and logan closes his eyes.

_my dad is right here. my dad is right here. my dad is right here._

* * *

“—make sure he comes home right then, ms. prince.”

“and that he won’t eat too much cake?”

“of course not,” virgil says, sounding almost offended. “i’m not letting _any_ of them eat too much cake.”

a soft huff that’s usually means mommy’s laughing around someone who isn’t roman.

“all right, then,” she says, and calls, “roman, are you ready?”

“just a _minute_!” roman hollers, giving his eye one last swipe with the brush. this’ll have to do. he careens out into the living room.

“here i am!” he sings.

“yes, here you are,” his mom says. “do you have your sleepover bag?”

roman groans, and stomps back into his room to get it. “that was my dramatic entrance!” he hollers.

“well, it _was_ very dramatic,” virgil says, and a slightly louder huff from his mother.

roman swings back into the room, and then proceeds to strike a pose, and flutters his eyelashes for extra emphasis.

“your makeup is very pretty,” virgil says seriously, and roman beams.

“thanks!”

virgil takes the bag, and the perfectly-wrapped present, swinging it over his shoulder, and roman approaches his mom.

“behave,” she says. “and tell mr. sanders thank you for letting you sleep over.”

“i will,” roman says, and when he gestures she bends so he can smack a kiss on her cheek that leaves behind a bright red lip print. 

"bye, ms. prince,” virgil says.

“goodbye, virgil,” she says, as they walk to the door. “goodbye, roman.” 

“bye, mommy!”

she shuts the apartment door behind them, and roman takes virgil’s hand as they walk down the stairs, and head for the inn.

he gets so into telling virgil why he is _wrong_ about _cinderella_ and the prince in there, because he was a _very busy prince,_ that he almost doesn’t notice when they get to the inn.

and _then_ he drops virgil hand and basically _sprints_ to the door, knocking as loud as he possibly can, ignoring virgil’s “wait up!” and then the door’s thrown open and—

“hi there, roman!” logan’s dad says brightly.

“hi!” roman says, equally bright. 

“hi,” logan says, poking his head out from behind his dad’s thigh. “hi, virgil.”

“hey there, birthday boy,” he says, and logan’s dad steps aside to let them both in. 

logan really loves the poolhouse—roman’s never been, he’s just kind of been near him and usually whenever he hangs out with logan it’s in the inn.

roman looks around the room, and he decides he loves it too.

there’s pretty swaths of fabric draped _everywhere,_ dying the patches of sunlight pink and yellow and red, and there’s a curtain hanging in front of a big clawfoot bathtub like in the movies, and logan and patton’s beds are next to each other, with big fluffy pillows and blankets all _over_ them, making roman want to swan dive right on top of it, and a few beanbag chairs tossed around to make a little sitting area, with stacks of books like ramshackle towers and skeins of yarn bundled up in a little basket by a rocking chair, a few pairs of knitting needles sticking out of the top of it like hedgehog spines.

“i like your face,” logan says, and roman brightens, grinning, and flutters his eyelashes.

“i put glitter on,” he says. “an’ lipstick. i like the red.”

“it’s pretty,” logan says, and roman _beams._

virgil gives them all dinner before cake, because he is a _grouch_ who does not believe in cake for dinner, but he guesses the grilled cheeses that virgil makes on a griddle are pretty good. 

“cake or presents first?” virgil asks, and logan tilts his head, considering.

“presents.”

“the right choice,” roman says. “whose first?”

virgil and roman end up playing rock-paper-scissors to decide who’s first, and virgil wins. 

logan tears it open, and gasps, unearthing it, and then another, and another, and _another_.

“virgil,” he says disbelievingly, “there’s _so many here.”_

they’re all lego collections—the kind that logan can assemble in tons of different ways, and not just one set way.

“i figured i might as well—“ virgil hesitates, but says, “well, you know, better too much than too little, right? especially on a birthday.”

“they’re _awesome,”_ logan says. 

“oh,” virgil says. “cool. good.”

“better not open those up yet, kiddo,” logan’s dad says, “you’ve got two more presents to open up.”

logan pauses, and says, “after cake?”

“after cake,” his dad says. 

“mine now,” roman says, and presents the box, grinning.

“there’s ribbons on,” he says, staring. “i almost don’t wanna rip it up.”

“_rip it up it’s your birthday,”_ roman screeches, and logan laughs, before he obligingly starts to rip it up.

he stares, and says, “what’s this?”

“i made it,” roman says, and scrambles over to explain it. “i—i put you in _peter rabbit,_ ‘cause you liked it during storytime, 'cept instead of vegetables they’re stealing berries to put into jam.”

logan’s dad makes an _aww_ noise, and says, “that’s _very_ creative, roman, what a cool gift!” as logan slowly opens up the book, tracing his fingers over the drawings that roman did, the letters roman made sure were all straight and even and spelled right.

he takes his time reading it, and roman _knows_ he’s taking his time reading it because logan’s the fastest reader in the grade, and by the time he gets to the end he flips it back to the front, almost like he’s gonna read it again.

roman, about to burst, says, “d’you like it?!”

“i love it,” logan says immediately, and at last he looks up from the book, eyes shining, and he grins at the look on roman’s face. “i _love_ it, roman, this is the coolest thing ever.”

“oh,” roman says, breathless, and grins back. “good.”

“i’m gonna put this on a table, so it doesn’t get stained by cake or anything,” logan’s dad says, and ruffles roman’s hair. “_awesome_ art, buddy.”

“thanks, mr. logan’s dad,” and virgil snorts.

“you can just call me patton,” logan’s dad says.

“okay, mr. logan’s dad.”

logan’s dad laughs, before he goes and he gets a box that is the _size of roman._

logan gapes at it. “_whoa,”_ he says.

“here, i got a chair for you to stand on,” logan’s dad says, and drags it over so logan can clamber up to rip off the wrapping paper, and then open up the box, and his head whips toward him.

“_papa,”_ he says breathlessly.

“a secondhand bookstore near the city was having a closing-down sale,” logan’s dad says, and roman tugs at virgil’s arms until virgil lifts him up so he can see, too.

there’s books. there’s _so_ many books—it’s the most books roman’s seen outside of class and bookstores, picture books and thicker books and chapter books and books for big kids, too. _so._ many. books.

“and—and look at the top,” logan’s dad says. virgil sets roman back on the ground.

logan picks it up, and stares. it’s a furniture catalogue, roman thinks, the kind that gets delivered to his mom sometimes. logan looks toward his dad.

“what’s this mean?”

“it means,” logan’s dad says, “that i got a promotion at work! so that means we can move, and you can get your own room, which you can decorate _however_ you want.”

“we’re moving?” logan says, dejected, and roman’s heart plummets—because moving in movies always means you almost _never_ see them again.

“closer to the diner, and roman, and school,” his dad says hastily. “you aren’t moving _away,_ honey.”

roman lets out a sigh in relief.

“oh,” logan says, and considers this. “closer to roman?”

“well, hopefully,” he says.

“that’s okay then,” logan decides.

“and i got a decoration,” his dad says. “which you can keep in your room, or out in the living room, if you want. roman and me had a pretty similar idea, actually.”

“okay,” logan says, and his dad goes to dig out something. it’s a book, big and leathery and cool-looking, like a book that a sorcerer would use in a movie.

logan flips it open.

“i kept a record of all the milestones you hit, as a baby and a little kid,” logan’s dad says, and points. “and i kept stuff open—‘cause you’ve still got to lose a tooth, and graduate high school, and all that stuff, and i have _tons_ of pictures, too—“

logan takes just as long a time to page through that as he did with roman’s book—there are _tons_ of pictures, of who logan says are his grandparents and his other dad and some people from around the house—and they hit the empty pages, and logan closes it carefully.

“happy sixth, buddy,” logan’s dad says, and leans in to press a kiss to his cheek. “here’s to six million more.”

“you can’t live for six million years,” logan says.

“six million!” roman declares. “six million! six million! six million!”

“it’s cake time, i think,” virgil breaks in, and logan’s dad cheers.

and when roman tries it, it tastes like jam and frosting and all the best kinds of things.

it’s exactly the kind of cake logan deserves.

* * *

“i think they’re both tuckered out,” patton says, voice hushed.

“i think you’re right,” virgil agrees, similarly quiet, so as to not wake the sleeping boy who’s flopped out on his chest. “where are they both sleeping?”

“they’re taking my bed,” patton says, and virgil narrows his eyes at him.

patton huffs, hair flopping endearingly with the force of his breath, and says, “it’s _one_ night of sleeping on the ground, virgil.””

“well—“

“do you want to make the _babies_ sleep on the floor?” patton challenges, and virgil sighs.

“no,” he mutters.

“one night,” patton repeats. “my back will survive.”

“fine, fine,” he mutters, and carefully holds onto roman as he stands, to make sure he doesn’t flop his head back and wake himself up, and patton follows suit with logan. 

virgil carefully settles roman so his head is on the pillow, and then moves to tuck him in; he barely even stirs, and virgil has to suppress a smile at the sight of him, slightly open-mouthed, letting out noises that aren’t _quite_ snoring.

“his lipstick’s gonna stain your pillowcase,” virgil says, and patton stifles his snort as he similarly makes sure logan’s all tucked in.

“it’ll wash,” he says, and steps back to survey the pair of them, nodding once.

“porch?” patton offers, and virgil nods. 

patton’s “porch” is really two old, near-broken rocking chairs donated by the inn sitting just outside the door, overlooking the inn’s grounds, and patton gathers up some of the spare blankets in his arms as virgil readies his own supplies.

patton’s already settled when he comes out, closing the door behind him, and patton laughs.

“more cake?” he teases.

“little bits,” virgil says, handing over patton’s plate, trying not to drop what’s tucked between his arm and his chest as he sits in his own chair, setting his plate into his lap, before he unearths the surprise.

patton laughs at the sight of the two mini-bottles of wine—virgil had picked up a four-pack for about six bucks at the gas station.

“it’s your six-year anniversary of fatherhood,” virgil says defensively, and patton’s smile goes all touched and soft and kind of sappy, brown eyes warming, and oh god, okay, virgil _seriously needs_ to get this crush under control, that’s his _best friend._

“well,” patton says, and tilts the bottle at him. “cheers, then.”

virgil taps his bottle against his, before he twists off the cap. 

they eat and drink in relative quiet, before patton says, “you—i told you. about chris.”

virgil swallows, and fiddles with the bottle. “yeah. i mean, i figured—i mean, i didn’t wanna ask and make it awkward in front of the kids.”

patton nods, before he looks out at the grounds and says tightly, “i tried calling, to see when he’d get here, but i just got his machine._ don’t bother calling me back,_ he said, _i’m out on the **mystic blue**, i’ll call when i recover and if you’re worth it.”_

_he sounds like a douche,_ virgil would say, if he didn’t want to hurt patton’s feelings, because for whatever reason patton still considers this guy his friend, so instead he says, “what’s the _mystic blue_?”

“i didn’t know either, ‘till i looked it up,” patton says, and takes a long pull of his wine. “turns out the _mystic blue_ is a cruise liner that prides itself on its breathtaking views, its vibrant night-life in its three separate clubs with other similarly-minded party people, and,” his face twists, becoming tight, “the all-you-can-drink package from any of their full bars.”

virgil’s struck dumb, and all he can say is, “that _douchebag.”_

patton shrugs and wraps himself tighter in his blanket, but he doesn’t deny it.

“i mean, seriously, that—that _asshole,”_ virgil fumes. “he’s missing out on his son’s birthday, the one he _promised_ to come to, to get blackout drunk for a week in the fucking bahamas?”

“it’s two weeks in the baltic, actually.”

“_whatever,”_ virgil says. “i—i literally _have_ to punch him now, you realize that?”

patton snorts, and leans to knock his elbow into virgil. “stop that,” he scolds. “little ears might hear you.”

“i just—_god,”_ virgil says. “he better be leaving logan the _biggest_ trust fund, i swear.”

“my parents kinda have that covered, i think,” patton says.

“the answer here is clearly two trust funds,” he says, mostly to make patton laugh, and he does, a little, and virgil hesitates, before he continues.

“logan didn’t seem too upset.”

“well, i didn’t tell him the particulars, but,” patton says. “all he kept saying was _my dad’s right here,_ so i don’t—i don’t know if he was upset and not telling me, but usually i’m pretty good at telling if he’s sad, so.”

“logan’s tough,” virgil says. “he’s—y’know, he’s a really good kid.”

patton smiles, and if it was before the cake batter went everywhere in the kitchen, virgil would’ve leaned over to touch his arm, or something, and oh my god, had he had this crush for an absurdly long time and just not tuned into it?

virgil shakes the thought, and says, “that’s on you, you know?”

patton steals a look at him, looking soft and gentle and _god,_ virgil managed to say something that made him look so touched and grateful and he feels like he’s about to float right through the roof, before patton shakes himself and looks down at the ground and clearing his throat, not quite able to shake off his smile.

“um. thanks.” he steals a look at virgil out of the corners of his eyes, almost blocked by his glasses, and says, “you ain’t too shabby at raising a kid yourself, you know.”

he grins, unexpected, and it feels like it’s about to split his face.

“well,” virgil says, and shrugs. “it’s easy, with a kid like him.”

“yeah, it is,” patton says softly, and scoots his chair closer so that he can lean his head on virgil’s shoulder, and virgil just about holds his breath, afraid that if he _breathes_ wrong it’ll break the moment. 

“happy birthday, logan,” patton murmurs.

“yeah,” virgil says, and hesitantly rests his cheek against patton’s head. “happy birthday, kid.”


End file.
